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On Thursday, I boiled a pot of rice, placed it neatly into three separate air-tight containers, and pasted words on the front like “I love you,” and “You’re a demon,”
and everyday, I spoke those words to the rice as if speaking them to a friend, or enemy.
By Saturday, I had boiled two hundred more pots, and the counters of my home were filled with containers which said words like “My Angel,” and “Betrayal,” and “Destruction.”
And I was amazed at the results, thousands of jars, each spoiling at the same rate.
I wondered why I could not save even a single grain of rice.
I awoke with you(r) voice) lingering in the air, remnants of dream clinging, scattered pieces of planets falling over down around.
II.
Every night a little death, a prodding of formless intangibility, for example – last night gravity held us in orbit above a planet
I became a block of black granite
and explained
communication
occurs instantaneously across great distances universes or lifetimes away.
III.
I poured some coffee, thought about your plain smile, how smugly you said my name, (as if you owned me) and I realize I never lost you, because my dead father would have said,
“You can’t lose something you never had.”
IV.
Every morning I wake, surprised at life. being alive.
V.
Whatever Secrets the Dead Know They Keep to Themselves
Here we go round the thin shade of ‘morn, a soft side of dawn. . .
A great hawk, six feet wide, circled once and dove into an open field. and rose, like a breath of smoke on fire, his wings plowed draughts of wind in invisible eddies – a silhouette on starched earth.
Here we go round the razor of dawn, a shade of a form. . .
And the field mouse, stuck in his talons – fur torn open – heart beat bled empty, ascended also, watched her home below, become as she would soon be to…
(And a 1 and a 2 and 3 and a) a never a nonono. . .
You shoulda seen the black crows circling below, eating her entrails, while pebble black eyes (infinite alone) remembered the field (and a)
See we spin down the dark of the blood, a sun a sun of smoke. . .
she might’ve dreamed (of a 1 and a 2 and a) of being back home, a hole in the ground (3 and 4 and) too far too far too far
Patta-patta patta the blood on the lawn, a home a stone a birth. . .
(7 6 5, a life is alive) a sad man (4 3 2, what to do what to do) in a s h i t brown field (and a 1 and a done) died her death that day too.